SOMETHING OF THE CREST

Behind the camera slops of disinfected road rage 

some simple stereo coughs rinse out their first lines like a counter tenor; the ambulance glides over new terroir, humping over shaded bumps, life-saving equipment clattering in the back.

When you inhale that first thing thought

 sleeping dreams sit frozen along siren sacks. 

Eyes are so watery.

Whit an oily salute we convince ourselves on the benefits of survival; self-investment is the business of living. A worthy prospect?

Hard tracks across fell tops trampled something rotten; then it’s home for tea.

Throw some more pulp mash on the burner. 

                                       You’re caught up in the utter gloss of

chip shop promises, same as every other throw away year.

Seconds out from a different life all together; just mere seconds from a switch of destiny. Seconds or cells it’s all a lottery.

                                                               Even your grandiose band standing can’t save us. Come whatever dumb dry month you choose. 

Lost in a cosmos of 

“ let’s let the past eradicate itself like so many green and blue flames.”

Nothing means nothing and it all gets burnt or thrown away.

Anyway.